Another Sober Saturday Night
by HarryPotterTwin
Summary: Left all alone in the world to fend for his little girl and the group who looked to him as a leader, Lee Everett feels completely and utterly hopeless. Having lost one of the only people to truly care about him, and to love him like no one had before, how will he cope? Is alcohol the solution? No. No way. It's time for another sober Saturday night. [OneShot - R&R)


_**A/N**_ _ **–**_ _Okay guys, here's something a little bit different for you all. Welcome to what I like to call my 'Writer's Block' therapy._

 _As a lot of you know, the last few months have been hard; almost too hard. I've had a lot to deal with, and I feel it's really REALLY affecting my writing (it just took me a minute to realize that I'd wrote 'righting' instead of 'writing' for example), so I want to get back into the flow of things._

 _So, here you have my best shot at a canon-following oneshot! I'm sorry if it causes anyone distress, as it deals with a REALLY sensitive part of The Walking Dead Game Season One for a lot of players (myself included). It's my take on what should have happened afterwards, and our protagonists' thoughts over the whole thing. I won't go into too much detail, and leave it for you to read! All I request is you listen to 'Sober Saturday Night' by Chris Young while reading, as it was the inspiration for this fic!_

 _Anyway, enjoy guys! And please leave a review! It helps writers block like 1000000%!_

* * *

 _I feel terrible, sunlight's hurting my eyes  
So I pull the shades and I make my place as black as night  
I feel miserable and I'm missing you and me  
Another Sunday morning all alone underneath these sheets._

* * *

Sunlight streamed through the window, drawing a groan from the man lying on the large, king-size bed, his head pounding and his mouth bone-dry. His short, black hair stood haphazardly in all directions as he rose from his laying position. His jeans had ridden up his legs during the night, exposing the dark, rough skin on his shins, and a pair of greying socks (which had previously been a clean, bright white). A yawn came from him, before he stood, and grabbed his blood-covered shirt from the antique, wooden chair which was set beside the large, four-poster bed; both pieces of furniture adorning green and ivory cushioning, and a soft, white throw across the bottom of the bed.

The mansion they'd found themselves holed up in could only be described as such; a mansion. It was huge, especially to the shuffling, exhausted man, who was making his way across the bedroom floor slowly with long, dragged-out steps. Coming from a working class background, eventually getting a thoroughly middle-class career, he could have only dreamed of living in a place like it at one time in his life. The same went for the others in their group, he would imagine. Growing up in a Macon street-house, with his parents and brother meant that money had been tight, what with the business and both of their college funds to add to. Such luxuries were almost completely foreign to him by the time he'd married his wife, and helped keep him thoroughly grounded in the financial respect. There was no luxury of a double, king-size bed in his life, nor the chandeliers that hung from the arched, coved ceiling, or the dining room table that he was sure was the same length as his entire apartment had been in his college days.

But none of that mattered to the man, as he made his way past the old, dusty furniture, another long, low yawn leaving him, as he reached the en suite bathroom attached to their—no, his – room, he had to remind himself with a sad pang of regret. A sigh left him, and he approached the sink, his hands setting either side of the bowl, before he looked up to view his reflection in the eye-level mirror.

* * *

 _No, I'm not hungover it's true, but I'm still not over you  
All messed up, all strung out, I was sitting at home breaking down  
I'm not out there getting high underneath some neon lights  
Ain't no whiskey strong enough to make things right  
I'm just getting over another sober Saturday night_

* * *

Exhausted, angry, and depressed. Those were the only words that could describe the man looking back at him through the bathroom mirror. Dark bags circled beneath his squinting eyes in an effort to keep the early morning rays of sunshine paining them any further than they already were, and the wrinkles on his forehead seemed as deep as the Grand Canyon itself. His eyes; always a deep brown now seemed to almost absorb light within them, bloodshot vessels turning the whites a shade of red, and his hair seemed to have greyed over the course of a few days.

Lee Everett almost didn't recognize himself.

Never in his life had he been so exhausted. He'd never felt so low, or so hopeless, having escaped from their home not even three days prior in a hail of bullets, arrows, and - at one point - walker blood. They'd left everything behind: Food, supplies, ammo, and more importantly (to Lee at least) all the memories the place entailed. Of course, the fact he hadn't eaten or slept for more than an hour in that time didn't help his exhaustion, but it was the hand they'd all been dealt in life; the life of survival they'd had to undertake in order to stay alive in a world ridden by rapists, murderers, thieves, and the living dead.

But that wasn't what was bothering Lee. Not even close.

* * *

 _Besides the pain, I don't feel a thing  
When my buddies call me up, I just let it ring_

* * *

Memories plagued him, his mind working overtime in the duration of their drive to Savannah, ever since they'd made that short but life-changing detour back on route 19, when a walker had become trapped beneath their vehicle. Ever since that stop, he hadn't been able to so much as think about sleeping, nor eating even a crumb. It was impossible, and he knew exactly where it had come from all of a sudden.

It all stemmed from not even three days prior.

Soft touches between bed sheets, and muttered words exchanged in the midst of early-morning lovemaking replayed over and over in his mind, seemingly on an endless loop of torture. Every touch, every glance, every spark passing between them stabbed him like a dagger straight through to his heart, and the pang of regret soon followed. If he'd only seen Lilly reach for her gun. If he'd only been fast enough to stop her; if he'd only been able to stop the bullet.

If only he'd been able to take the bullet for her.

That was one of the more macabre thoughts to pass through Lee's brain in the days following the death of Carley; the no-nonsense reporter from Atlanta, whose smart mouth was as accurate and as fast as her dead-eye aim, and the people-skills to match. The first few days of the plague had them meet by chance, with her holing up in his parents' drugstore along with a rag-tag group of survivors. Most notable of said survivors were Lilly and her father Larry, who between them threatened, dictated, and bossed their way to the leadership role in their group.

Not that Lee minded, of course. He'd always respected both Lilly and Larry Caul, since he'd agreed to find the keys to his own family's pharmaceutical store, having to kill his own brother in the process, in order to get the man Nitro-glycerine pills to aid a possible heart attack, which Lee may have been part of causing in some small, insignificant way. That is, of course, if bellowing at a seventy year old man in the middle of a walker-infested street was insignificant. Unfortunately, two months later, Lee had been a part of Larry's death, in a way that disgusted even himself. And, in some weird way, he felt that the incident in which Lee held Lilly back from performing CPR on her dying father while another man from their group, Kenny, dropped a large, heavy Salt-Lick on Larry's head to stop him from turning was partly why Lilly had snapped back at the roadside.

Carley had been too loud with her. Not that he could blame her. Lilly was accusing both her and Ben (one of the younger members of their group) of stealing medical supplies, which were then stashed away for Bandits to find in a nearby vent. Lee felt that he'd have snapped, too, under the pressure she was presented with. But even with that in mind, he felt that the punishment outweighed the crime tenfold. No way did she deserve that. No. She didn't deserve to be lying out there, rotting, on the side of the road for walkers and looters to find.

The thought made his stomach churn uncomfortably, and the meagre amount of food he'd managed to eat before they left their home threatened to come back up. The discomfort he'd felt since her death hadn't abated one bit, and the pain of her loss still rang fresh with every memory that flooded back to him. One instance of this was when Ben had come to his room the previous night, with a fresh, unopened bottle of whiskey in his hand, and an unspoken promise that everything would turn out for the best. And while Lee appreciated the thought, he couldn't see that happening in any way, shape, or form.

How could things get better? He thought to himself, as he cupped some water in his palm from his water bottle, and wiping it over his face, in an effort to wake himself up. How could it, when his second chance had been taken from him too soon?

Carley wasn't just some random woman he'd picked up in the heat of a drunken, hazy daze. She wasn't just a quick fling. No. Carley Palmer was much more than that. She was a woman he'd quickly fallen in love with for her simply being herself, and he knew she felt exactly the same. She had never given up on him, even knowing his past crimes, and the anger that could course through him when backed into a corner. But that didn't matter to her. She didn't see him as Lee Everett: Convicted Murderer. Carley saw him as Lee Everett: Survivor. And for that, Lee felt like he'd fallen in love with her even more.

Both her and Clementine were his redemption; his second chance of a happy, normal life. He could see a future with her, during all the times they'd stowed away together in the room he and Clementine shared, playing Go Fish, or Monopoly, or just lying there talking between themselves… Hell, doing anything together. He'd thought about the two of them getting through the apocalypse together, and setting up in a small, suburban house with a white picket fence. He'd imagined a life where they'd adopt Clementine and hopefully have a child of their own; with Lee resuming his role as Professor at some small-town community college, and Carley taking a job as a reporter at their local news station.

But all of that was ripped away from him as soon as the bullet left Lilly's gun. It all fell away when he saw her lifeless body drop in a crumpled heap at the side of the road, whatever life she had in her, along with whatever life they could have had, falling away in a heartbeat.

* * *

 _No, I'm not hungover it's true, but I'm still not over you  
All messed up, all strung out, I was sitting at home breaking down  
I'm not out there getting high underneath some neon lights  
Ain't no whiskey strong enough to make things right  
I'm just getting over another sober Saturday night_

* * *

Every memory of when they'd settled at the motor-inn seemed to rush back to him as he dried off, making his way back through to the bed, where he sat, and shrugged on his trusty blue shirt with a sigh coming from him. The shirt now covering his torso had been gripped by her so many times; in happiness, ecstasy, and grief; and he didn't know which hurt more to think about. How many times had they laid together? How many times had they set out to have intimate nights to just end up in giggling messes on the bed, abandoning their plans and contenting themselves with simply laying in each other's arms, exchanging soft touches and gentle pecks? How often did they share glances from across the parking lot of the motel, silently communicating, and subconsciously providing each other with a renewed determination to get their given tasks done (Carley to complete her watch duty, and Lee his supply runs)? How many 'I love you's had been exchanged between them, whether in the heat of passion or in the soft tranquillity of the night?

Too many.

Soft footsteps were what broke him from his trance, and he looked up to see Ben standing in the doorway awkwardly with Clementine standing by his heels, equally as awkward as the teenager before her.

 _Clementine_.

The little girl in his doorway was all he had. She was his saving grace now, and he knew he'd do anything in his power, even If it killed him, to keep her safe. It was all he could do to stop himself losing his mind; becoming the man he'd despised, but had been only months prior. He wasn't going to let that happen. No way; no how. He had to stay strong, for her sake.

So, as he stood, a fake smile on his face, he made sure to keep the untouched, full bottle of whiskey out of her eyesight, and hidden within his bed sheets. He wouldn't touch that thing, ever. He was better than that; better than letting himself succumb to the quick-fix that alcohol offered. If he could do one last thing for the woman he sorely missed, it would be that; to not become the monster she knew he wasn't.

"I'm gonna do it," He thought to himself, as he walked past the two kids, and gently tapped the peak of Clementine's cap as he did so, which the little girl immediately giggled at, and put right, both of her tiny hands raising to push the headwear back to her forehead. "I'll do this for you, Car… And I'll see you soon. I know it."

"… I love you…"

* * *

 _No, I'm not out there getting high underneath some neon lights  
Ain't no whiskey strong enough to make things right  
I'm just getting over another sober Saturday night_


End file.
